very numerous family. His father died when he was little more than
twenty, leaving him the Mac Carthy estate, not much encumbered,
considering that it was an Irish one. Charles was gay, handsome,
unfettered either by poverty, a father, or guardians, and therefore
was not at the age of one-and-twenty, a pattern of regularity and
virtue. In plain terms, he was an exceedingly dissipated—I fear I may
say debauched young man. His companions were, as may be supposed, of
the higher classes of the youth in his neighbourhood, and, in general,
of those whose fortunes were larger than his own, whose dispositions
to pleasure were therefore under still less restrictions, and in whose
example he found at once an incentive and an apology for his
irregularities. Besides, Ireland, a place to this day not very
remarkable for the coolness and steadiness of its youth, was then one
of the cheapest countries in the world in most of those articles which
money supplies for the indulgence of the passions. The odious
exciseman, with his portentous book in one hand, his unrelenting pen
held in the other, or stuck beneath his hat-band, and the
ink-bottle (‘black emblem of the informer’) dangling from his
waist-coat-button—went not then from ale-house to ale-house,
denouncing all those patriotic dealers in spirit, who preferred
selling whisky, which had nothing to do with English laws (but to
elude them,) to retailing that poisonous liquor, which derived its
name from the British “parliament,” that compelled its circulation
among a reluctant people. Or if the gauger—recording angel of the
law—wrote down the peccadillo of a publican, he dropped a tear upon
the word, and blotted it out for ever! For, welcome to the tables of
their hospitable neighbours, the guardians of the excise, where they
existed at all, scrupled to abridge those luxuries which they freely
shared; and thus the competition in the market between the smuggler,
who incurred little hazard, and the personage ycleped fair trader, who
enjoyed little protection, made Ireland a land flowing, not merely
with milk and honey, but with whisky and wine. In the enjoyments
supplied by these, and in the many kindred pleasures to which frail
youth is but too prone, Charles Mac Carthy indulged to such a degree,
that just about the time when he had completed his four-and-twentieth
year, after a week of great excesses, he was seized with a violent
fever, which, from its malignity, and the weakness of his frame, left
scarcely a hope of his recovery. His mother, who had at first made
many efforts to check his vices, and at last had been obliged to look
on at his rapid progress to ruin in silent despair, watched day and
night at his pillow. The anguish of parental feeling was blended with
that still deeper misery which those only know who have striven hard
to rear in virtue and piety a beloved and favourite child; have found
him grow up all that their hearts could desire, until he reached
manhood; and then, when their pride was highest, and their hopes
almost ended in the fulfilment of their fondest expectations, have
seen this idol of their affections plunge headlong into a course of
reckless profligacy, and, after a rapid career of vice, hang upon the
verge of eternity, without the leisure for, or the power of,
repentance. Fervently she prayed that, if his life could not be
spared, at least the delirium, which continued with increasing
violence from the first few hours of his disorder, might vanish before
death, and leave enough of light and of calm for making his peace with
offended Heaven. After several days, however, nature seemed quite
exhausted, and he sunk into a state to like death to be mistaken for
the repose of sleep. His face had that pale, glossy, marble look,
which is in general so sure a symptom that life has left its tenement
of clay. His eyes were closed and sunk; the lids having that
compressed and stiffened appearance which seemed to indicate that some
friendly hand had done its last office. The lips, half-closed and
perfectly ashy, discovered just so much of the teeth as to give to the
features of death their most ghastly, but most impressive look. He lay
upon his back, with his hands stretched beside, quite motionless; and
his distracted mother, after repeated trials, could discover not the
least symptom of animation. The medical man who attended, having tried
the usual modes for ascertaining the presence of life, declared at
last his opinion that it was flown, and prepared to depart from the
house of mourning. His horse was seen to come to the door. A crowd of
people who were collected before the windows, or scattered in groups
on the lawn in front, gathered round when the door opened. These were
tenants, fosterers, and poor relations of the family, with others
attracted by affection, or by that interest which partakes of
curiosity, but is something more, and which collects the lower ranks
round a house where a human being is in his passage to another world.
They saw the professional man come out from the hall door and approach
his horse, and while slowly, and with a melancholy air, he prepared to
mount, they clustered round him with inquiring and wishful looks. Not
a word was spoken; but their meaning could not be misunderstood; and
the physician, when he had got into his saddle, and while the servant
was still holding the bridle, as if to delay him, and was looking
anxiously at his face, as if expecting that he would relieve the
general suspense, shook his head, and said in a low voice, “It’s all
over, James;” and moved slowly away. The moment he had spoken, the
women present, who were very numerous, uttered a shrill cry, which,
having been sustained for about half a minute, fell suddenly into a
full, loud, continued and discordant but plaintive wailing, above
which occasionally were heard the deep sounds of a man’s voice,
sometimes in broken sobs, sometimes in more distinct exclamations of
sorrow. This was Charles’s foster-brother, who moved about in the
crowd, now clapping his hands, now rubbing them together in an agony
of grief. The poor fellow had been Charles’s playmate and companion
when a boy, and afterwards his servant; had always been distinguished
by his peculiar regard, and loved his young master, as much, at least,
as he did his own life.
When Mrs. Mac Carthy became convinced that the blow was indeed struck,
and that her beloved son was sent to his last account, even in the
blossoms of his sin, she remained for some time gazing with fixedness
upon his cold features; then, as if something had suddenly touched the
string of her tenderest affections, tear after tear trickled down her
cheeks, pale with anxiety and watching. Still she continued looking at
her son, apparently unconscious that she was weeping, without once
lifting her handkerchief to her eyes, until reminded of the sad duties
which the custom of the country imposed upon her, by the crowd of
females belonging to the better class of the peasantry, who now,
crying audibly, nearly filled the apartment. She then withdrew, to
give directions for the ceremony of waking, and for supplying the
numerous visiters of all ranks with the refreshments usual on these
melancholy occasions. Though her voice was scarcely heard, and though
no one saw her but the servants and one or two old followers of the
family, who assisted her in the necessary arrangements, every thing
was conducted with the greatest regularity; and though she made no
effort to check her sorrows, they never once suspended her attention,
now more than ever required to preserve order in her household, which,
in this season of calamity, but for her would have been all confusion.
The night was pretty far advanced; the boisterous lamentations which
had prevailed during part of the day in and about the house had given
place to a solemn and mournful stillness; and Mrs. Mac Carthy, whose
heart, notwithstanding her long fatigue and watching, was yet too sore
for sleep, was kneeling in fervent prayer in a chamber adjoining that
of her son:—suddenly her devotions were disturbed by an unusual
noise, proceeding from the persons who were watching round the body.
First, there was a low murmur—then all was silent, as if the
movements of those in the chamber were checked by a sudden panic—and
then a loud cry of terror burst from all within:—the door of the
chamber was thrown open, and all who were not overturned in the press
rushed wildly into the passage which led to the stairs, and into which
Mrs. Mac Carthy’s room opened. Mrs. Mac Carthy made her way through
the crowd into her son’s chamber, where she found him sitting up in
the bed, and looking vacantly around like one risen from the grave.
The glare thrown upon his sunk features and thin lathy frame gave an
unearthly horror to his whole aspect. Mrs. Mac Carthy was a woman of
some firmness; but she was a woman, and not quite free from the
superstitions of her country. She dropped on her knees, and, clasping
her hands, began to pray aloud. The form before her moved only its
lips and barely uttered, “Mother;”—but though the pale lips moved, as
if there was a design to finish the sentence, the tongue refused its
office. Mrs. Mac Carthy sprung forward, and catching the arm of her
son, exclaimed, “Speak! in the name of God and his saints, speak! are
you alive?”
He turned to her slowly, and said, speaking still with apparent
difficulty, “Yes, my mother, alive, and—— But sit down and collect
yourself; I have that to tell, which will astonish you still more than
what you have seen.” He leaned back on his pillow, and while his
mother remained kneeling by the bed-side, holding one of his hands
clasped in hers, and gazing on him with the look of one who
distrusted all her senses, he proceeded:—“do not interrupt me until
I have done. I wish to speak while the excitement of returning life is
upon me, as I know I shall soon need much repose. Of the commencement
of my illness I have only a confused recollection; but within the last
twelve hours, I have been before the judgment-seat of God. Do not
stare incredulously on me—’tis as true as have been my crimes, and,
as I trust, shall be my repentance. I saw the awful Judge arrayed in
all the terrors which invest him when mercy gives place to justice.
The dreadful pomp of offended omnipotence, I saw,—I remember. It is
fixed here; printed on my brain in characters indelible; but it
passeth human language. What I _can_ describe I _will_—I may speak it
briefly. It is enough to say, I was weighed in the balance and found
wanting. The irrevocable sentence was upon the point of being
pronounced; the eye of my Almighty Judge, which had already glanced
upon me, half spoke my doom; when I observed the guardian saint, to
whom you so often directed my prayers when I was a child, looking at
me with an expression of benevolence and compassion. I stretched forth
my hands to him, and besought his intercession; I implored that one
year, one month might be given to me on earth, to do penance and
atonement for my transgressions. He threw himself at the feet of my
Judge, and supplicated for mercy. Oh! never—not if I should pass
through ten thousand successive states of being—never, for eternity,
shall I forget the horrors of that moment, when my fate hung
suspended—when an instant was to decide whether torments unutterable
were to be my portion for endless ages? But Justice suspended its
decree, and Mercy spoke in accents of firmness, but mildness, ‘Return
to that world in which thou hast lived but to outrage the laws of Him
who made that world and thee. Three years are given thee for
repentance; when these are ended, thou shalt again stand here, to be
saved or lost for ever.’—I heard no more; I saw no more, until I
awoke to life, the moment before you entered.”
Charles’s strength continued just long enough to finish these last
words, and on uttering them he closed his eyes, and lay quite
exhausted. His mother, though, as was before said, somewhat disposed
to give credit to supernatural visitations, yet hesitated whether or
not she should believe that, although awakened from a swoon, which
might have been the crisis of his disease, he was still under the
influence of delirium. Repose, however, was at all events necessary,
and she took immediate measures that he should enjoy it undisturbed.
After some hours’ sleep, he awoke refreshed, and thenceforward
gradually but steadily recovered.
Still he persisted in his account of the vision, as he had at first
related it; and his persuasion of its reality had an obvious and
decided influence on his habits and conduct. He did not altogether
abandon the society of his former associates, for his temper was not
soured by his reformation; but he never joined in their excesses, and
often endeavoured to reclaim them. How his pious exertions succeeded,
I have never learnt; but of himself it is recorded, that he was
religious without ostentation, and temperate without austerity; giving
a practical proof that vice may be exchanged for virtue, without a
loss of respectability, popularity, or happiness.
Time rolled on, and long before the three years were ended, the story
of his vision was forgotten, or, when spoken of, was usually mentioned
as an instance proving the folly of believing in such things.
Charles’s health from the temperance and regularity of his habits,
became more robust than ever. His friends, indeed, had often occasion
to rally him upon a seriousness and abstractedness of demeanour,
which grew upon him as he approached the completion of his
seven-and-twentieth year, but for the most part his manner exhibited
the same animation and cheerfulness for which he had always been
remarkable. In company he evaded every endeavour to draw from him a
distinct opinion on the subject of the supposed prediction; but among
his own family it was well known that he still firmly believed it.
However, when the day had nearly arrived on which the prophecy was, if
at all, to be fulfilled, his whole appearance gave such promise of a
long and healthy life, that he was persuaded by his friends to ask a
large party to an entertainment at Spring House, to celebrate his
birth-day. But the occasion of this party, and the circumstances
which attended it, will be best learned from a perusal of the
following letters, which have been carefully preserved by some
relations of his family. The first is from Mrs. Mac Carthy to a lady,
a very near connexion and valued friend of hers, who lived in the
county of Cork, at about fifty miles’ distance from Spring House.
_“To Mrs. Barry, Castle Barry._
Spring House, Tuesday morning,
October 15th, 1752.
“MY DEAREST MARY,
“I am afraid I am going to put your affection for your old
friend and kinswoman to a severe trial. A two days’ journey at
this season, over bad roads and through a troubled country, it
will indeed require friendship such as yours to persuade a
sober woman to encounter. But the truth is, I have, or fancy I
have, more than usual cause for wishing you near me. You know
my son’s story. I can’t tell how it is, but as next Sunday
approaches, when the prediction of his dream or his vision will
be proved false or true, I feel a sickening of the heart, which
I cannot suppress, but which your presence, my dear Mary, will
soften, as it has done so many of my sorrows. My nephew, James
Ryan, is to be married to Jane Osborne (who, you know, is my
son’s ward,) and the bridal entertainment will take place here
on Sunday next, though Charles pleaded hard to have it
postponed a day or two longer. Would to God—but no more of
this till we meet. Do prevail upon yourself to leave your good
man for _one_ week, if his farming concerns will not admit of
his accompanying you; and come to us with the girls, as soon
before Sunday as you can.
“Ever my dear Mary’s attached cousin and friend,
“ANN MAC CARTHY.”
Although this letter reached Castle Barry early on Wednesday, the
messenger having travelled on foot, over bog and moor, by paths
impassable to horse or carriage, Mrs. Barry, who at once determined on
going, had so many arrangements to make for the regulation of her
domestic affairs (which, in Ireland, among the middle orders of the
gentry, fall soon into confusion when the mistress of the family is
away,) that she and her two younger daughters were unable to leave
home until late on the morning of Friday. The eldest daughter
remained, to keep her father company, and superintend the concerns of
the household. As the travellers were to journey in an open one-horse
vehicle, called a jaunting-car (still used in Ireland,) and as the
roads, bad at all times, were rendered still worse by the heavy rains,
it was their design to make two easy stages; to stop about mid-way the
first night, and reach Spring House early on Saturday evening. This
arrangement was now altered, as they found that from the lateness of
their departure, they could proceed, at the utmost, no further than
twenty miles on the first day; and they therefore purposed sleeping at
the house of a Mr. Bourke, a friend of theirs, who lived at somewhat
less than that distance from Castle Barry. They reached Mr. Bourke’s
in safety, after rather a disagreeable drive. What befell them on
their journey the next day to the Spring House, and after their
arrival there, is fully related in a letter from the second Miss Barry
to her eldest sister.
“Spring House, Sunday evening,
20th October, 1752.
“DEAR ELLEN,
“As my mother’s letter, which encloses this, will announce to
you briefly the sad intelligence which I shall here relate more
fully, I think it better to go regularly through the recital of
the extraordinary events of the last two days.
“The Bourkes kept us up so late on Friday night, that yesterday
was pretty far advanced before we could begin our journey, and
the day closed when we were nearly fifteen miles distant from
this place. The roads were excessively deep, from the heavy
rains of the last week, and we proceeded so slowly, that at
last my mother resolved on passing the night at the house of
Mr. Bourke’s brother (who lives about a quarter of a mile off
the road), and coming here to breakfast in the morning. The day
had been windy and showery, and the sky looked fitful, gloomy,
and uncertain. The moon was full, and at times shone clear and
bright; at others, it was wholly concealed behind the thick,
black, and rugged masses of clouds, that rolled rapidly along,
and were every moment becoming larger, and collecting together,
as if gathering strength for a coming storm. The wind, which
blew in our faces, whistled bleakly along the low hedges of the
narrow road, on which we proceeded with difficulty from the
number of deep sloughs, and which afforded not the least
shelter, no plantation being within some miles of us. My
mother, therefore, asked Leary, who drove the jaunting-car, how
far we were from Mr. Bourke’s. ‘’Tis about ten spades from this
to the cross, and we have then only to turn to the left into
the avenue, ma’am.’ ‘Very well, Leary: turn up to Mr. Bourke’s
as soon as you reach the cross roads.’ My mother had scarcely
spoken these words, when a shriek that made us thrill as if our
very hearts were pierced by it, burst from the hedge to the
right of our way. If it resembled any thing earthly, it seemed
the cry of a female, struck by a sudden and mortal blow, and
giving out her life in one long deep pang of expiring agony.
‘Heaven defend us!’ exclaimed my mother. ‘Go you over the
hedge, Leary, and save that woman, if she is not yet dead,
while we run back to the hut we just passed, and alarm the
village near it.’ ‘Woman!’ said Leary, beating the horse
violently, while his voice trembled—‘that’s no woman: the
sooner we get on, ma’am, the better;’ and he continued his
efforts to quicken the horse’s pace. We saw nothing. The moon
was hid. It was quite dark, and we had been for some time
expecting a heavy fall of rain. But just as Leary had spoken,
and had succeeded in making the horse trot briskly forward, we
distinctly heard a loud clapping of hands, followed by a
succession of screams, that seemed to denote the last excess of
despair and anguish, and to issue from a person running forward
inside the hedge, to keep pace with our progress. Still we saw
nothing; until, when we were within about ten yards of the
place where an avenue branched off to Mr. Bourke’s to the left,
and the road turned to Spring House on the right, the moon
started suddenly from behind a cloud, and enabled us to see, as
plainly as I now see this paper, the figure of a tall thin
woman, with uncovered head, and long hair that floated round her
shoulders, attired in something which seemed either a loose
white cloak, or a sheet thrown hastily about her. She stood on
the corner hedge, where the road on which we were, met that
which leads to Spring House, with her face towards us, her left
hand pointing to this place, and her right arm waving rapidly
and violently, as if to draw us on in that direction. The horse
had stopped, apparently frightened at the sudden presence of
the figure, which stood in the manner I have described, still
uttering the same piercing cries, for about half a minute. It
then leaped upon the road, disappeared from our view for one
instant, and the next was seen standing upon a high wall a
little way up the avenue, on which we proposed going, still
pointing towards the road to Spring House, but in an attitude
of defiance and command, as if prepared to oppose our passage
up the avenue. The figure was now quite silent, and its
garments, which had before flown loosely in the wind, were
closely wrapped around it. ‘Go on, Leary, to Spring House, in
God’s name,’ said my mother; ‘whatever world it belongs to, we
will provoke it no longer.’ ‘’Tis the Banshee, ma’am,’ said
Leary; ‘and I would not, for what my life is worth, go any
where this blessed night but to Spring House. But I’m afraid
there’s something bad going forward, or _she_ would not send us
there.’ So saying, he drove forward; and as we turned on the
road to the right, the moon suddenly withdrew its light, and we
saw the apparition no more; but we heard plainly a prolonged
clapping of hands, gradually dying away, as if it issued from a
person rapidly retreating. We proceeded as quickly as the
badness of the roads and the fatigue of the poor animal that
drew us would allow, and arrived here about eleven o’clock last
night. The scene which awaited us you have learned from my
mother’s letter. To explain it fully, I must recount to you
some of the transactions which took place here during the last
week.
“You are aware that Jane Osborne was to have been married this
day to James Ryan, and that they and their friends have been
here for the last week. On Tuesday last, the very day on the
morning of which cousin Mac Carthy despatched the letter
inviting us here, the whole of the company were walking about
the grounds a little before dinner. It seems that an
unfortunate creature, who had been seduced by James Ryan, was
seen prowling in the neighbourhood in a moody melancholy state
for some days previous. He had separated from her for several
months, and, they say, had provided for her rather handsomely;
but she had been seduced by the promise of his marrying her;
and the shame of her unhappy condition, uniting with
disappointment and jealousy, had disordered her intellects.
During the whole forenoon of this Tuesday, she had been walking
in the plantations near Spring House, with her cloak folded
tight around her, the hood nearly covering her face; and she
had avoided conversing with or even meeting any of the family.
“Charles Mac Carthy, at the time I mentioned, was walking
between James Ryan and another, at a little distance from the
rest, on a gravel path, skirting a shrubbery. The whole party
were thrown into the utmost consternation by the report of a
pistol, fired from a thickly planted part of the shrubbery,
which Charles and his companions had just passed. He fell
instantly, and it was found that he had been wounded in the
leg. One of the party was a medical man; his assistance was
immediately given, and, on examining, he declared that the
injury was very slight, that no bone was broken, that it was
merely a flesh wound, and that it would certainly be well in a
few days. ‘We shall know more by Sunday,’ said Charles, as he
was carried to his chamber. His wound was immediately dressed,
and so slight was the inconvenience which it gave, that several
of his friends spent a portion of the evening in his apartment.
“On inquiry, it was found that the unlucky shot was fired by the
poor girl I just mentioned. It was also manifest that she had
aimed, not at Charles, but at the destroyer of her innocence
and happiness, who was walking beside him. After a fruitless
search for her through the grounds, she walked into the house
of her own accord, laughing, and dancing and singing wildly,
and every moment exclaiming that she had at last killed Mr.
Ryan. When she heard that it was Charles, and not Mr. Ryan, who
was shot, she fell into a violent fit, out of which, after
working convulsively for some time, she sprung to the door,
escaped from the crowd that pursued her, and could never be
taken until last night, when she was brought here, perfectly
frantic, a little before our arrival.